Authors: Camille Taylor
No Law (Law #3) (8 page)
Dmitry got home late. He had been working all day and most of the night on his new spyware program, which was more efficient and quicker than the ones currently available. He wanted his to be the best and the easiest to use, something that agents could take on missions in a flash drive so they could replicate a person’s hard drive fast, without alerting anyone or setting off alarms, and leaving no trace when it was done.
Unfortunately, he was still trying to get it to work properly. It hadn’t helped that his concentration had been shot after the meeting with the mysterious redhead in Elena’s office. Was she all right? It was clear she was scared, desperate. Who was she and why hadn’t she allowed him to assist her? She wasn’t dressed like most informants he’d met while working for the CIA. She had seemed almost normal. He wondered if he should tell Elena, but then he doubted the redhead would allow him to become involved with her problem anyway. She hadn’t been particularly friendly.
He hadn’t recognized her as one of Elena’s friends, having met the few she’d made since making America her home two years ago. Elena, like him, didn’t make or keep friends easily. The redhead didn’t match any of the case files she’d handed him to follow up on while she was on maternity leave. Since most of her contacts were Russian, he was the next best choice at continuing her job.
He guessed the woman had been referred to Elena. After leaving her office this afternoon, he decided the redhead had probably found herself another agent, most likely American. He was still annoyed by that. Just because he was Russian didn’t make him a bad guy. Over the years he’d been living in Washington, he had discovered many people weren’t as open-minded as they claimed to be.
He cleared his mind, but the only problem with removing that train of thought was that he kept returning to the redhead. He had already spent most of the evening fantasizing about her, all long legs, creamy skin, and thinking about nothing other than having them wrapped around his hips. Hell, he didn’t even know her name, yet he’d been turned on and had spent the rest of the afternoon with an uncomfortable hard-on. He again debated calling Elena. It was the middle of night, or early morning, and Lucas would kill him should he wake Yvonne, Elena’s and Lucas’s daughter.
Since Lucas was such a great shot, he figured he’d leave it until morning.
Hopefully, the redhead would stay out of trouble until then.
Mikhail stared out the window of his penthouse at the early morning dawn. His gut told him he’d been wrong. He should never have left the woman alive. The detective assigned to Brian Nichols’s murder, Robert Harrington, was now investigating possible mob associations. All because Carey Madigan had put it in his head. How had she jumped to the conclusion that he, being Russian, was mafiya?
Her correct assumption had an uneasy feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. He hated loose ends and unknown factors.
The woman had eluded his men and now she knew she was on his shit list. If she had half a brain, she would be on the first plane, train, or boat out of the city. Now he was wasting resources having every point of exit watched.
Brian Nichols had lied, which was no surprise, but he hadn’t thought the man had the balls to lie to
him
. Carey Madigan had been more than his assistant. She practically ran the museum and knew more about what was happening than the useless curator. How had he missed her when he’d been looking to recruit for his little business? But she would’ve turned him down flat. She was a woman of passion and integrity. A woman of steel, and dare he say she had a pair on her? He’d just found out she spoke fluent Russian.
She had heard and understood everything he had said. He tried to think back to what he’d said. Was there some damning sentence spoken? He couldn’t remember. He was amazed at the cool demeanor she had displayed and was quite impressed. He had known few women that he could admire but Carey Madigan was one of them. She was capable, a smart one, proved by how she’d escaped his men, a bloodthirsty lot. He had heard his men telling each other what they wanted to do to her once she was caught, what they’d like to teach her. How would she handle being their student?
She was strong-willed and, like a captain, would go down with the ship. When the time came, he wanted to look into her eyes and watch as the light faded from them. He shook his head. It would be a waste to destroy such a brilliant mind. If there was any chance of changing her loyalties, he would happily recruit her, knowing she would be a better investment than Brian. But he knew he was only dreaming, that such an idea was pure fantasy. Only one thing mattered now. Carey Madigan was a dead woman.
He would find her, torture her, and then kill her and he would enjoy it. No woman had ever put one over on him and lived. He remembered her disinterested gaze, not a flicker of recognition at the language being spoken. If she had spoken up, told him she spoke his language, he wouldn’t have been so interested in what she was hiding. The fact that she had pretended not to understand was damning.
He opened his laptop as fury coursed through his veins. It had been a while since he’d been disarmed but this woman had him thinking she was harmless. He would see her again soon. Vasily and Grigori were currently on their way to her apartment in Fairmont Heights. She would have a different wakeup call this morning.
He clicked on the search engine and typed
Hamilton Museum
into the search field. A beautiful, professional shot of the front of the mansion, showing the fountain and pebble drive along with the immaculate lawns and garden appeared on his monitor screen. The words neatly displayed in a fancy font across the publicity shot told him he was viewing Hamilton Museum and Gardens’ official website.
There was a page for viewing the collection, opening times, location, and directions on how to get there. He also found information on the gift shop, a history of the mansion along with a section dedicated to the benefactors of the museum, job opportunities, and a section for photographs.
He clicked on the
About Us
section and skimmed the information to read:
The museum’s board of directors recently announced the position of curator has been temporarily filled. The position became available when the previous curator, Mr. Brian Nichols, passed away. Acting now in the role is Ms. Carey Madigan, who was previously Mr. Nichols’s assistant curator, and whose specialty is in Russian antiquities. Ms. Madigan spent many years in Russia, working at the Kremlin Armory, Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow State Historical Museum, and the Puskin Museum of Fine Arts to name a few.
Something clicked inside his head. No wonder she’d haunted his mind. She’d gone by Thomas back then, and he’d been in Moscow five years earlier when her professor husband had been murdered. Pure luck had saved her life, but she wouldn’t escape again. What were the chances that the woman who’d discovered the forgeries at the Kremlin Armory would become a part of the mafiya’s new scheme? He couldn’t believe his odds.
“You did what?”
Alan bellowed at her, then ran his stiff hand through his blond hair.
Carey’s eyes widened and she involuntarily stepped away from him. Alan had never raised his voice to her before. He stared at her, his own eyes wide with panic. She hugged herself tightly against his unexpected rage. She’d thought he’d be proud of her and commend her for bringing the forgeries to light. She was confused and hurt and wanted to cry but she held the tears back, swallowing hard to keep them at bay.
“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to soothe his sudden temper. “You weren’t here. I made a decision.”
“That’s going to get us killed,” Alan snapped.
She gasped. “W-What?”
Alan cursed savagely and pulled her into his arms. “I’m sorry, honey, I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”
She relaxed in his arms.
“What did I do wrong?” she whispered.
Alan closed his eyes for a brief moment and when he opened them again she saw the torment, resignation, and the love he felt for her reflected in the dark pools. She shivered.
“I knew about the forgeries months ago.”
She pulled away from the embrace. “You did? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Hurt fueled her anger. Sometimes Alan treated her like a child, as if she couldn’t comprehend what he was saying. Had he been testing her? Didn’t he trust she knew what she was doing and could see a fake from the real deal?
“I couldn’t. They would’ve killed you instantly if I’d have breathed a word.” He stared into her eyes, ensuring she grasped what he was saying. “I’ve been so scared, wondering when I wouldn’t prove useful anymore and when I would become a liability.”
She swallowed hard, her mouth dry. “What’re you saying? Who are they?”
“Iosif Smirnov, the leader of the brotherhood.”
She almost lost her voice, as it was it came out strained and barely above a whisper, fear coating her body. “The Bratva?”
She had heard horror stories about the local mob and the reality of the situation suddenly hit home. “Oh my God.” She pressed a hand to her stomach as nausea began to rise. She looked to Alan for guidance. “What’re we going to do?”
The look he gave her had her weak at the knees and bile rising in her throat. Alan grabbed her by the arms and kissed her hard. “I love you, Carey. Never forget that.”
Her mind screamed but she was unable to voice the harsh objection. They heard heavy footsteps moving quickly toward them on the staircase outside their apartment door. They both turned towards the door. Alan took hold of her wrist and pulled her across the room, her feet not wanting to cooperate, so he ended up dragging her to the storage cupboard they had yet to fill. He opened the tall wooden double doors and pushed her in. She stumbled against the back of the cupboard from the force of the shove.
“Alan,” she cried out, trying to grab his arm. She wanted him beside her but knew that was not his intention.
“Whatever happens, promise me you’ll stay hidden.” When she didn’t speak, he caught hold of her chin and made her look into his eyes. “Promise me,” he demanded.
Tears rolled down her cheeks as she nodded fervently, knowing this would be the last time she ever spoke to him.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I love you,” Alan said again as he closed the cupboard doors on her face and moved away. Barely a second later, the door to their apartment exploded in a rain of wood chips and hung precariously on one hinge as Carey watched helplessly through the crack in the cupboard.
Two men entered and took hold of her husband. Fists and feet connected with his body, and she had to listen to the sounds of pain escaping his mouth, knowing she couldn’t do anything to help him. Revealing herself now would only make matters worse. They would rape and torture her, making sure Alan watched. She would die before him but he would surely follow, so she saved herself, biting down hard on the fist she had stuffed in her mouth to keep from crying out. She tasted the metallic tang in her mouth and knew she had drawn blood.
She wanted to look away but she’d inadvertently caused her husband’s suffering and it was only right she experienced his pain right along with him. It was a sight she would never forget or forgive. When she thought she could take no more, the second man brought out a gun and she stopped breathing. She screamed inside her head, so loudly her eardrums hurt. The man rose and aimed the weapon. Tears ran down her face in a heavy, quiet stream. Minutes stood still as she did nothing but wait for him to squeeze the trigger.
Stupid, stupid girl,
she cursed herself. Why had she gone to the authorities? She should’ve just waited for Alan. Damn her for wanting to impress him. Damn him for not telling her sooner. Damn the men who were about to end their lives, for as soon as Alan died, a part of her would too.
I love you,
she told Alan silently just as the man fired his gun.
Carey woke to the sound of car doors slamming. Her heart raced and sweat dampened her body. She tried to shake off the remnants of the dream as she scowled at her alarm clock when it dared to proclaim that the time was five to seven. She’d barely slept, her restless body remaining vigilant so that the slightest sound woke her. Living in an apartment building did little to help and she had made several mental notes to find the owner of the sensitive car alarm and kill him. She’d never before noticed just how many noises about the city sounded so sinister.
Rolling out of bed, she went to the window, already dressed having slept in her clothes. Adrenaline coursed through her as she spied Thug Number One jogging across the street towards her building.
She pulled on a pair of white running shoes, then grabbed her purse and the bag she’d prepared. Placing the bag across one shoulder, the straps pulling tight, diagonally between her breasts, she then picked up her cell phone and made her way to the front door, opening it a crack. She was about to step out when the elevator door opened and Thug Number Two exited.
She closed the door firmly, racing to re-secure the locks. Her breath came out in quick puffs, her heart racing beneath her ribs. Her gaze searched her apartment for a weapon. Finding none she glanced out the window. She was on the seventh floor. It was a long way down, too far for jumping or ledge hugging. She heard the sound of her lock being picked and knew a professional like him would not be kept out for long.
Undoing the window latch, she lifted the window, which was stiff from lack of use. She climbed out onto the tiny ledge and shimmied across to the fire escape, her heart in her throat as she tried not to think about falling. She didn’t dare look down, knowing full well she’d psych herself out and would most likely fall to her death. She wasn’t one for heights and while it was fine to live on the seventh floor, she certainly never expected to be
outside
seven floors up.
Should she knock on some of the windows? Maybe someone would help her. Who was she kidding—this was Washington, for Heaven’s sake.
She tried to be as quiet as possible as Thug Number One was directly below her watching the exit. She heard the sound of wood splintering and assumed that was Number Two undoing the chain. It would take him a few minutes to notice she wasn’t there.
Taking the steps one at a time, her eyes cast below her, watching, waiting for the man to spot her. From this distance he could probably pick her off with his pistol and leave her for the pigeons to peck at her body. She had gone halfway before Thug Number One’s cell phone rang. Taylor Swift’s “Mine”
rang out loudly. She stopped, stunned and shook her head. People could surprise you.
“
Da
,” she heard him say.
Please don’t look up.
She assumed that it must be his partner in crime ringing him from her apartment to let him know she wasn’t there. He was more than likely coming back down to help with the search on street level. Standing still on the fire escape, she held her breath and wished to be invisible as Number One moved about beneath her. She could see him clearly from her position, nothing obstructing her view whatsoever. His dark hair was uncombed and stuck up at odd angles, and he wore a leather jacket.
She carefully removed her iPhone from her pocket and brought up her camera function, positioned it and pressed the button, the sound echoing in the early morning. She almost wet her pants right then and there, having forgotten about the sound, and quickly flicked the button to silence the phone. Thug Number One was so engrossed in his conversation that he hadn’t heard her. She returned her phone to her pocket, silently cursing her stupidity. That could have easily proved fatal. She continued slowly down the fire escape, praying Mikhail’s man would stay distracted long enough for her to get to her car.
Another car door closing had her head spinning towards the sound, her neck protesting the action, her hand reaching up to massage the strained muscle. Detective Harrington strode across the road purposefully, his speed not what she’d expect from a man his age. He headed for the door of her building, and as he did so, walked past Thug Number Two, the two giving each other a slight nod. She stilled, narrowing her eyes.
It could have been a simple good morning nod for two strangers walking past one another or it could have been a message to a comrade in arms. She wasn’t one for coincidences. The timing was suspicious. Why else was he here at her apartment building at this hour? He was obviously not here delivering the news that she was no longer a person of interest. That kind of thing could be said over the phone. The fact that he was here at the same time as her friends from the local mafiya had cold sweat running down her spine.
She wasn’t about to stick around to find out whose side he was on. Even if the detective was here to take her down to the station to ask her a few questions after her lack of communication the day before, she knew she wouldn’t survive the night. Gripping the fire escape hard, her knuckles went white. Great, so not only did she have the local brotherhood chasing her, but Washington’s finest as well. Unfortunately for her, neither was her salvation.
Reaching the pavement, she hid in the small alley between her building and its neighbor. She shook uncontrollably. Fear had once again reared its ugly head, but she was glad it wasn’t the paralyzing kind. Peering around the corner when another voice spoke, she found Thug Number Two had joined his partner on the street and was looking around. She heard Number One say, “She has to be around somewhere. Her car’s still here.”
Shit. There goes that option.
They were going to be watching her car unless—
A man with grey hair walked past the two thugs. If she timed herself just right….
A gust of wind blew her hair into her face and not for the first time, she cursed her vivid red hair. She may as well be wearing a target on her back. She would have found it easier blending in wearing flaming pink at Capitol Hill.
The man was just about to pass her when she took a deep breath and fell into step with him. He gave her a cursory glance and she said, “Ex-boyfriend. Can’t let it go.”
He nodded as if it made sense and didn’t make a deal out of it. She prayed the two men didn’t turn around and spot her. She was almost to her car as she pulled out her keys.
“Could you do me a big favor and cross here? My car’s right there and—”
He let out an exasperated sigh. “Sure. Why not, if it’ll get rid of you.”
“You’re a good man.”
He waved her comment off. “Yeah, that’s what they all say.”
He walked beside her until she got to her car. The man glanced over his shoulder to look at Number One and Two, who for their part were still discussing the fact that she should be somewhere nearby.
Not soon I hope
.
She pressed the button on her key and the locks disengaged.
“You’d better hurry, the flashing lights have drawn their attention,” the man said.
“Thanks. You’d better get out of here,” she told him and jumped into her car, sparing a quick glance in the rearview mirror at the two men running toward her car.
As she drove away, she heard them shout, “
Suka
.”
Bitch.
A
pop
sound pierced her ears and her back window shattered. They’d decided she had pissed them off for the last time. She ducked her head out of view while doing her best to drive out of firing range. She heard another
pop,
then the sound of metal crumpling. Now she was pissed. There was no need to take it out on her car. It was going to cost a fortune to have a bullet dent ironed out of the back.
She didn’t see Harrington with them, so she let herself have a small amount of hope that despite him being a pain in the ass, he was at least an honest cop. But then again he wasn’t exactly arresting the two men popping off shots just feet from where he was. Maybe he was just laying low until the idiots stopped shooting, or maybe he was already gone.
She swerved to avoid hitting a parked car, managing at the last moment to pull away before impact and found herself in traffic, listening to the delightful sound of an irritated driver hitting the horn. After bullets, horns were nothing.
